by Jeff Olah
With one eye on the road and other on his severely injured friend sitting less than twelve inches away, Ethan pointed the SUV toward the sidewalk. And using his right arm to keep Ben back against his seat, he slowly guided the oversized vehicle to the curb.
Out in the street, Griffin was quickly approaching. He also appeared to be shouting. Unable to make out exactly what he was saying, Ethan toggled the automatic windows and leaned out.
He was calm, but spoke quickly and assertively. He wasted not one word as he projected his voice from the driver’s seat. “Griffin, Ben has been shot. Get in, we need to get him to Carly.”
His eyes darting from Ethan to the passenger side of the SUV, Griffin momentarily turned back as Frank also began to run. “Get the others, Ben needs help!”
Shifting into park, Ethan opened his door and stepped out. He looked back into the cab as Ben slumped forward, again beginning to slip from consciousness.
“Griffin, there isn’t time. We have to get him to Carly.”
Ignoring Ethan’s request, Griffin looked in through the passenger window. He took a moment to scan the interior, checking for a seatbelt, and then making sure the injured young man’s weight wasn’t positioned back against the door. He finally looked back at Ethan and nodded toward the interior. “I’m gonna need your help.”
Continuing around the front of the massive SUV, Ethan felt his face beginning to warm and his pulse climbing as he slammed his open hand down on the hood.
“GRIFFIN, YOU AREN’T LISTENING, HE NEEDS—”
As the pair came shoulder to shoulder at the passenger door, Griffin didn’t turn to look at his friend. He instead took a deep breath, reached for the door handle, and nodded back toward the sidewalk.
Ethan’s knees felt weak and his voice caught in his throat as he watched the four women move away from the five-foot retaining wall at the far end of the intersection. They walked single file out of the heavy shrub and one by one began to hurry toward the idling sport utility vehicle.
Still attempting to put all the pieces together, Ethan turned back to Griffin.
“How?”
Releasing Ben’s seatbelt and leaning in through the passenger door, Griffin spoke quickly and quietly. “What happened to the kid?”
His head on a swivel, Ethan took a quick head count as the others approached. “Shot in the right arm; he bled quite a bit before I got it wrapped.”
“Maddox?” Griffin asked.
“Yeah.”
“You take care of it?”
“Yes.”
A slight smirk slid across Griffin’s face as he turned to Ethan. “Good… you ready to do it again?”
8
The interior of the vehicle was unnervingly silent as the two men sat staring at one another, waiting for Josie to respond. They hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the university and as the last communication hung in the air, they all tried to wrap their minds around what was to come next.
With the satellite phone in her lap, Josie clutched the two-way radio in her left hand, breathed in through her nose, and keyed the mic. “Are you absolutely sure?”
A moment of static filled the air and then a man’s voice came through. “I’m standing over his body now. Trust me, Maddox is gone.”
“Okay, get back to Building One, we’ll be along shortly.”
She was lying; she had no intention of going back. Supplies at the university were running dangerously low. Three of the four generators had already failed. Nearly every one of her men were now either dead or infected. And on top of everything else, the mid-sized SUV she chose from the end of the lot had less than a quarter tank of fuel.
There wasn’t a single thing left for her here. She’d done what was asked of her and now it was over. Goodwin’s plan had failed. This city wasn’t worth rebuilding. With Maddox no longer part of the equation and her only chance of leaving this frozen hell threatening to fly away, there was only one thing left to do before racing back to the private airfield.
Tossing the two-way radio to the man seated to her right, Josie grabbed the sat phone, punched in the number, pressed the speaker button, and waited. She shook her head and began counting when the phone rang for a fourth time.
“Four.”
“Five.”
Josie exhaled loudly and looked at the two men. “Six.”
As the phone started to ring a seventh time, a hurried voice broke through. “Josie, Mr. Goodwin has already given you instructions.”
“Instructions? He asked you to call me and tell me that he was essentially leaving us behind. You know as well as I do that he owes us more than—”
The man’s voice on the other end interrupted. “Listen, I just fly the plane. There isn’t a whole lot I can do. Goodwin’s determined to be back in the air ASAP.”
Turning and looking toward the intersection, she cupped her hand over the phone. “This isn’t happening.”
“Nicholas, how long have we known each other?”
A moment of silence and then the pilot could be heard sighing into the phone. “Josie… don’t make this personal. You work for this man just like I do. You know what he’ll do to me if he even finds out I answered this call, so…”
She opened her mouth and raised the phone, but then quickly pulled it away. She knew what she wanted to say. What she’d usually say. What he was expecting her to say. But instead of wasting time trying to convince him to help, and in the process probably piss him off, she’d do what she always did and just help herself.
Closing her eyes and again bringing the phone to her lips, she took a deep breath and smiled, as if he could somehow see her. “Nick, I guarantee you’ll regret this.”
Pulling the phone away, Josie ended the call and tossed it into the backseat. She gunned the engine, flipped on the headlights, and quickly engaged the high-beams. With one last look around the interior, she motioned toward the illuminated street and smiled.
“Okay.”
Slightly confused, the man alone in the backseat leaned forward, but didn’t initially make eye contact with Josie. He instead peered out through the windshield, attempting to understand without having to ask.
As Josie continued to stare straight ahead, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, she appeared to be mouthing something to herself. As the prolonged silence turned awkward, the man over her right shoulder finally spoke.
“Josie, what are we doing?”
Rolling her neck from left to right and back again, she shifted the SUV into drive and began pulling away from the side of the road. “We’re going to that airfield. There’s someone I need to speak with.”
Noticing that they were still rolling toward the intersection and that Josie hadn’t checked her mirrors or begun to turn the vehicle, the man in the backseat buckled in. “Uh… aren’t we going the wrong way?”
Everything inside her told her to turn the SUV around and make an effort to at least get to the airfield. Goodwin was as unpredictable as he was arrogant and narcissistic. He’d stand by his assertion to leave the city as soon as they’d refueled, although he also respected those who were able to execute his objectives in the face of adversity. He’d want her on that jet for no other reason than to prove he chose the right person for the job. At least that’s what she hoped he’d think.
Josie slowly began to nod. “We’ll get there. But first we’re going to finish this.”
Rolling up to the intersection, she kept their speed below fifteen miles per hour and drifted right. Taking the left turn on a wide radius, she was able to see where the six individuals they were pursuing had moved out of the trees and started up Emerson Way.
Coming out of the turn, another much larger SUV sat in the distance. She hadn’t remembered it being there the last time she came through the area, and this definitely wasn’t one from the lot at the university—she would have remembered it. There was only one explanation and before she could mouth the words, the man with the long stringy black hair sitting in the passenger
seat reached for his weapon.
“There they are.”
As the faceless figures twenty yards ahead darted from the sidewalk and into the trees, Josie pointed the SUV in their direction and flipped on the high beams, flooding the area with illumination. She drove to within ten feet of the sidewalk, slammed the brake pedal to the floor, and reached for the door handle.
“Kill them… all of them.”
9
Stepping into the cab of the fueling truck, Marcus Goodwin was breathing hard. He had a smile on his face and staring out over the tarmac, started to laugh. He rested the shotgun he had carried from the jet up against the door, shook his head, and began to lose himself. In between the fits of laughter, he was attempting to voice the absurdity of his current situation.
“They… They… They are actually coming after me. Can you believe those things? They think…”
He couldn’t finish. The laugher took him. Goodwin slapped the dashboard and stomped his feet against the floorboard. He shook with excitement as his eyes tracked the movement of the closing horde. The unsettling scene playing out inside the cab of the fuel truck was in direct contrast to the events happening less than twenty yards away.
As Goodwin lapsed into hysteria, the young man now seated behind the wheel slowly pushed the key into the ignition and eyed the man giving the orders. Dalton couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever seen this man even chuckle, let alone show this level of emotion. It was off-putting, but even more than that, Goodwin actually seemed to be enjoying himself.
Turning his attention out the window over his left shoulder, Dalton felt the immediate need to interject. Goodwin was in between fits of laughter and the younger man took the opportunity.
“Sir, we need to get moving.”
And as quickly as Goodwin’s odd behavior came on, it ended, without so much as an acknowledgement from either of the men. Twisting his unusually large smile into a depressing scowl, he pointed into the night and motioned toward the jet.
“What are you waiting for? Move this thing!”
Turning over the engine, Dalton furrowed his brow as he looked away. He’d been with this man nearly every single day for the last year and although Goodwin’s frequent stress-induced fits of rage weren’t uncommon, this type of outburst was new. Was the self-made billionaire finally giving in to the pressure of destroying the entire world or was this something else? Dalton only hoped he wouldn’t have to find out.
Shifting into drive and looking for a path back to the jet that was at least somewhat free of Feeders, Dalton recalled the man he originally met and the story of his demented upbringing.
Marcus Goodwin hired Dalton away from his former company after the two had spoken for less than ten minutes. The two other interviewers were asked to step out of the room as Goodwin retrieved a black dry erase marker and moved to the mobile whiteboard at the opposite end of the massive conference room table.
Without hesitation, he drew a dollar symbol along the upper left side of the board and turned back to Dalton. “Okay son, what’s your number?”
“Mr. Goodwin… my number?”
“I have a project that I want you to head and I want you to start on Monday.”
Grinning in disbelief, Dalton sat forward in his chair. “Monday as in—”
“Yes, Mr. Dalton. I have an office ready for you on the tenth floor and a team that needs a leader. The only thing I need to know is the number that you want me to write on this board. The dollar figure that it will take to get you here on Monday morning.”
“Mr. Goodwin, while I appreciate—”
Interrupting, Goodwin tossed the black dry erase marker to the younger man, and returned to his seat. “Call me Marcus.”
Still attempting to put this conversation into perspective, as well as collect his thoughts, Dalton stared back toward the board. “Uh… I don’t quite know what to say. I wasn’t completely prepared for this.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Goodwin said. “How about you go up to the board and write the number yourself. I’ll even leave the room if that would make you feel more comfortable.”
“No sir, it’s just that I wouldn’t be simply leaving another job. I was under the impression that you knew I was the founder of—”
“Yes, the company you started that produces those cute little games for smartphones. I’ve familiarized myself with your company and am willing to pay you for it as well… hell, I’ll even let you keep it.”
“Mr. Goodwin… uh Marcus?”
“You retain ownership and then just have someone else run it for you. I hear your COO is more than capable.”
Turning his gaze from the board to Goodwin, Dalton paused for a beat and then took in a deep breath. “Monday?”
Goodwin smiled. “Can I get you here sooner than that?”
Dalton returned the gesture. “Just one question, what exactly will I be working on?”
“You’ll get all the details once we get your NDA and Non-Compete signed, but for now, welcome to Project Blackmore.”
In the years since that first meeting, Dalton had learned more about Marcus Goodwin than was probably healthy. For reasons still unknown to him, the wealthiest man alive had grown to trust him with even the most intimate of details. Maybe it was the fact that Dalton rarely shared anything outside his own professional life, and maybe it was simply Goodwin’s way of avoiding anything that resembled actual therapy. Either way, the evolution of their relationship had more than a few unusual twists. Glancing across the seat at Goodwin, he recalled the night he nearly turned in his resignation.
He’d only been with BXF for one-hundred-eight-six days. He remembered that night like it was yesterday. The pair sat in Goodwin’s penthouse office, exhausted after fourteen long hours with the planning committee. They had finally broken ground on Blackmore and would start laying the foundation of Building One the following day.
It could have been the stress finally taking its toll, the lack of adequate sleep, or possibly the copious amounts of alcohol the pair had begun to consume, but for whatever reason, Marcus Goodwin opened a door to a part of his life few had ever known. And for a young James Dalton, it was a door he wasn’t completely sure he wanted to step through.
Just past midnight and in a rare moment of vulnerability, Goodwin cradled his 64-year-old scotch and let his eyes drift to the carpet. He kept his gaze away from Dalton as he began to share his story.
He talked about starting BXF with dirty money and how he’d made close to a million dollars while sitting in his college dorm room. He then moved back in time and detailed his first years in foster care and how he’d attended six different high schools.
Without missing a beat, Goodwin threw back what remained in his glass, set it on the table to his right, and finally met Dalton’s eyes.
“We’re you aware of how I came to be a child of the state?”
Dalton had heard rumors, but he figured they were constructed out of fear and jealousy. “I’m not sure that I do.”
There was no hesitation, no halted thoughts. His voice came out slow, with each word drawing on the momentum of the one before. Goodwin wanted to tell his story and he was now lost to the experience.
“When I was ten years old, my father killed my mother while I sat on a sofa less than ten feet away. He then turned the gun on himself and blew his brains all over our living room.”
Dalton sat up quickly in his chair, but fumbled for a response. He couldn’t adequately process what he was feeling. It wasn’t necessarily shock and his only thought was to escape the moment. “Mr. Goodwin, you don’t need to—”
Goodwin continued before the younger man could finish. “I’d hated my father long before he killed my mother and himself. He knew this and wanted me to feel pain every single day of my life. Did you know that my father once told me that it made him happy knowing that I was afraid of him? That he enjoyed seeing the fear in my eyes?”
Pausing, Goodwin bit into his lower lip and let out a long bre
ath. “The funny thing is, I’d often pray that my father would die. That he be taken from our family. Every time he put his hands on me, every derogatory insult about my weight, every comment about not being worthy of being his child, pushed me closer to wanting to end his life myself. I just never had the courage.”
Dalton wanted to speak, to change the direction of the conversation, to somehow find his way out of this rabbit hole he was currently falling through. But instead, he stared back at the man who had shed only a single tear and waited.
“If I’d have done it myself, put that gun to my father’s head and pulled the trigger, my mother would still be alive. Although not much about my own life would have changed. As a child, I would have spent a few years in prison, possibly a few more in therapy, but as it stands, I ended up doing those things anyway. Unfortunately, I also had to lose my mother in the process.”
Shifting in his seat, he fought for the right words to end his awkward confession. “I was afraid of that man, and because I couldn’t manage to pull together the strength to do what I needed to do, my mother paid the price. Two days later, while sitting in a hospital bed, I told myself that I would never let fear have control over my life again. It had taken from me something that could not be replaced, but would never do so again.”
It was Goodwin’s last statement that stayed with Dalton to this day, the reason he was almost too patient with the man who may have just ended all of humanity. And as he drove across the tarmac heading for the jet, he watched the crowds begin to descend on their ride home. Taking in a deep breath, his hand shook as he reached for the pistol sitting in his lap.
“Mr. Goodwin… are you ready for this?”
10
Snow had once again started to fall. They’d been granted nearly two straight days of moderately fair weather, but it appeared that the storm that had devastated the area a week earlier had now returned. The quarter-sized flakes drifted slowly from the sky, gently collecting along the windshield as Frank cocked his head to the left and watched the dark blue mid-sized SUV slide to a stop, not thirty yards from where his friends had entered the treeline.
